NOT a victim.

TW: sexual assault, rape.

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As I look over my past blog posts, I keep thinking that I want to be more open about myself.

This is Me.

Through self-reflection and some basic shadow-work, I have come to realize that I must practice requesting help from others rather than trying to control everything myself, and that I must open up to my people about my true experiences and feelings.

I know that my truth cannot be used to successfully harm me, so I believe I will start with the true story of how my first sexual experience with another human was not by my choice.

Please know that I share this traumatic happening with y’all in an effort to be as helpful and open as I can. To tell my experience as clearly as I can, including how I have dealt with the repercussions of the events of that April night…to my very own mixed results…

Let me start by saying that I was a late bloomer/very young/naive pre-teen/teen, and excessively shy.

Really.

If it hadn’t been for my Irish twin, Lew, who made friends with our neighbors and brought them to our house to play in our massive front yard, I’d have never had any childhood friends.

Strangely contrarywise, I had “discovered myself” at around 9yo, figuring out what mastrubation was and how to make my hand motions work for me. ; ) See…I grew up in a hyper-literate, musical household and spent the majority of my time reading. There were no limits set on what I wanted to read, and I have 3 older brothers, so I discovered soft-porn girly mags pretty young, and I was incredibly curious…science, yo.

Even so, I was shy and bookish…all I wanted to do was read or swim or ride my bike…

My “first kiss” was a game of kiss-tag in a walnut orchard with my neighbor’s cousin, a CUTE boy named Eddie, when I was 12.

The next year, I received a new bike and rode to the San Joaquin River and back on a hot, Central Valley, summer day with a 15yo boy from my church, (named “Mike” oddly enough) and on the way back, he gave me some ice cold, but weirdly bitter, orange juice.

After wobbling my bike a little way further, I stopped and asked him what was in the OJ (it was vodka). He then kissed me…Using His Tongue!

For many years, I believed that drinking booze led to tongue kissing.

Generally.

As stated previously, I was a late bloomer. I had my first period at 14.5 years old. That is considered to be on the late side of normal. I was still very much a little kid.

I was 15 circa April 1985, and I traveled with my Mom and her boyfriend (an older Chiropractor we called “Doc,” he was very nice) to Anaheim so that Doc could attend a Chiropractic convention.

I do remember the elegant dress that my Mom made for me to attend the fancy Chiropractor’s dinner with them both that weekend (she was a seamstress, among many other things). It was off-white, with BIG puffed sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, and I recall the adjustments she had to make right down to the last minute, because I was smack in the middle of my growth spurt (5’7″ to 5’10” in less than 6 months) and my hip, waist, and shoulder measurements kept changing (although I didn’t get boobs till I was 17).

8th grade class photo

We stayed at the Anaheim Hilton, and my Mom and I went to Disneyland on one of the days while Doc was Chiropractor-ing.

I have been a swimmer for my whole life. The 2 things I don’t remember learning to do are read and swim.  I have swimming ribbons from when I was 4, and wasn’t allowed to attend pre-school because I already knew how to read.

ANYway…

The hotel had a pool and a hot tub, and, on our last night there, I went down after dinner to swim, and I met a guy who said his name was “Mike.”

*Interesting side note: I started this post many weeks ago, but I found myself a bit stuck*

When I was about 17, I wrote about what happened that night…I’ll just pop that right here:

I am not triggered by hotels or hot tubs, or even Heineken…but I CANNOT STAND seeing change (coins) on a surface.

I’m a big believer in piggy banks.

I recall riding back home to Fresno in the backseat of Doc’s car the next day. I thought of telling my Mom what happened, but couldn’t bring myself to speak about it at all.

Right after this happened, I got the chance to get drunk and stoned for the first time. Our apartment manager threw a party, providing a big vat of vodka-filled fruit juice with oranges and cherries in it, so I recall drinking SO MUCH and then eating the fruit, discovering how alcohol could make me “disremember” anything I wanted to forget.

I smoked weed for the first time that night as well. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling at first, THC being new to me and all, but I reveled in the disconnect from my trauma that being wasted gave to me.

Yeah…that’s enough for now…

3 thoughts on “NOT a victim.”

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